Gloria,

The worst is that
we could be nostalgic
for our life, that we could say

March is a metamorphosis
away and I will
not see you at my

hotel room if I have one
Where is the airport
The airport is away

with the gin and no
one human speaker
will history our meeting

I know you, like the
impassive ways, are far
and abstract

All my money is gone
If I get to International
I will take a bus

No resignation scenario
nor recantation will
timid hapless gloss

No, truly
or I will say
desert farewell

And meet my self
alone in an urban part
designed by planners
with an ear

to the cutting